Somewhere in the greyness of dawn, I drifted into a dream-studded semblance of slumber, only to be woken a scant handful of hours later by the unfamiliar sounds of somebody moving around the flat. My first, drowsy thought was that a burglar was using my shower, and then I remembered.
Darian.
I buried down into the duvet and grimly attempted to force myself back to sleep in the hope he would have left by the time I woke up again. Unfortunately, the endeavour was not a success, and I was left with no choice but to get up.
I knotted myself firmly into my dressing gown and padded into the kitchen, where Darian was eating a bowl of Weetabix and reading Heat magazine. He looked repulsively cheerful for someone on the wrong side of noon. His hair was a marvel of engineering, shaming even the quiff I had witnessed in Brighton. His jeans were very tight, as was his T-shirt, which was black and had the words “Show Love” written on it in silver, hard-to-read letters. His shoes were exceptionally pointy.
“Morning, babes,” he said. “I ’ad to go to the corner shop cos you ’ad nuffin. And guess what?”
I blinked. “Uh . . . what?”
“Look in the sink.”
I looked in the sink. There was a dead plant sitting in a sort of water bath.
“I fink we can save ’er. The rest ’ave ’ad it, though.”
“Uh, great, well done.”
“It’s like a horror movie or summin, innit?”
“Pardon?”
“She’s the only one to get out alive. Do you reckon she’s like a plant cheerleader or summin?”
“I thought the cheerleader always died first?”
“Maybe, I dunno. I don’t really like horror, to be ’onest wif you. Like you’re watching and eeva you’re not scared so what’s the point, or you are scared and then you’re like . . . scared, janarwhatamean?”
This was all a bit much first thing in the morning. “I think so,” I said dubiously.
“Kettle’s boiled, by the way.” He pointed helpfully, in case I had somehow forgotten the location of my own damn kettle. “Milk in the fridge.”
“Oh!” Relief. “Tea!”
I was just pouring myself a cup, when suddenly there was an excitable Darian behind me, nosing into my neck, while his hands swooped about my person.
“What are you wearing, babes?” His voice struck me as unduly incredulous for a man with a huge pewter ankh hanging round his neck.
“Gentleman’s sleeping attire.”
He turned me away from my tea, a dangerous action if there ever was one. I opened my mouth to complain but then he stroked my purple silk lapels.
“That dressing gown, babes,” he said, at last, “is love. And I nevva seen pinstriped pyjamas before.”
“Are they, err, love?”
“I fink they’re just a bit weird. I mean, what’s this pocket for? Carrying your teddy bear?”
“I don’t know, pockets are useful.”
“But why’d you need three in a pair of pj’s? Seriously, babes, you go to bed in more clovves than I wear going out.”
“Are you quite done, Herr Lagerfeld?”
He kissed my nose. “You’re so funny, babes. Fanks for letting me stay.”
“Thanks for . . . getting me off.”
He laughed. “Any time. So, like, I’ve got this meeting fing wif a modlin agency today and then it’s back ’ome cos Nan’s expecting me. Unless like maybe you wanted . . .”
“Yes.”
I’d spoken before I’d even had time to frame the thought. And ten seconds later, he was phoning his grandmother to let her know he’d be staying another night in London. What had I done?
I sat down at the table, sipping my tea while Darian babbled happily into his phone.
“Yeah, gonna crash wif a mate . . . No, you don’t know ’im . . . No, ’e’s not a axe murderer or anyfing . . . I can just tell . . . Yeah, yeah, that’s a good fought. But if ’e was, right, ’e’d ’ave already axe murdered me. Yeah, he’s nice . . . He’s well posh. You should hear ’im . . .”
I had a terrible split-second-too-late premonition of what was about to happen. And, despite my frantic fuck no, don’t you dare gesticulations, he shoved his phone at me, explaining cheerfully that I should “say ’ello to Nanny Dot.”
My mouth fell open but no words came out. I gripped his phone in frozen terror as if he’d handed me a live grenade. He grinned encouragingly, and I shot him a betrayed look, which seemed to make no impression on him whatsoever.
“Good morning, Darian’s grandmother,” I said.
“Oooh, ’e’s right,” she said, “you do sound lovely. You can call me Dot.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your name, young man?”
“My friends call me Ash.”
“That is nice. ’Ow are you, Ash? Is our Darian behaving ’imself?”
“I am quite well, thank you. And, yes, he’s a model house guest.” I particularly enjoy the way he fucks me. “He’s welcome to stay, um, any time.”
“You two be good.”
“Yes. Yes, we will. It was very nice talking to you, Dot. Good-bye.”
I passed the phone back to Darian, with great relief. He chatted a bit longer and then hung up.
“I think I hate you,” I said.
He bounced over and kissed me until I was moaning into his mouth and clutching great handfuls of Show Love. Finally, he drew back.
“Maybe I don’t hate you.”
He grinned. “Ahwight, I’ll be back later, but I’m not gonna eat more of ’em dead mushrooms.”
“We can order in. When we’re not fucking.”
“Aww, babes, you gottit all planned out. You’re so romantic.”
“You’re unbearable in the morning, you know that?”
He did not look remotely chastened. “I’ll cook summin nice,” he went on, and thrust what appeared to be a crumpled train ticket into my hands. “But you’ll ’ave to pick some fings up for me.”
“You need me to pick up the 15:19 from Basildon?”
“Turn it over, donut.”
“This . . . this is a shopping list. Darian, I do not do shopping.”
“What? Nevva?”
“Well, sometimes, on the internet. When it can’t be avoided.”
He propped his hips against the edge of my table. God, they looked good in those exceptionally clinging jeans. “’Ow abaht just this once?” he said, with what I’m sure he imagined to be a winning look.
“No.”
He fluttered his lashes. He actually fluttered his lashes.
“I’ll make it up to you, babes.”
“Oh, will you now?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, for somebody who made such a fuss about being treated like a gentleman of the night, you’re remarkably eager to use sex to get what you want.”
“Ha-ha, gentleman of the night. Lie-kit! But who said anyfing abaht sex? That was your mind in the gutter, mate.”
“We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are enjoying ourselves down there.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Do we have a deal?”
“That you go shopping and I do anyfing you want? That don’t seem very fair.”
“Well, I don’t like going shopping.”
He frowned. “You won’t,” he asked, in a small voice, “make me do anyfing embarrassing or anyfing, will you?”
“God, no! I promise.”
He cheered almost instantly. “Ahwight, then.” He tapped the train ticket I was still clutching. “So, you need to get everyfing on the list. And make a salad to go wif it.”
“Wait—what? You didn’t say anything about a salad!”
“Later, babes.”